


Happily Ever Afters

by SedentaryZebra



Category: Cinderella Phenomenon (Visual Novel)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Happily Ever Afters for Everyone!, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Wedding Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 12:36:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11463735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SedentaryZebra/pseuds/SedentaryZebra
Summary: After nearly two years of keeping their relationship a secret, a royal wedding is announced. Plans are made, invitations are sent, and, across the continent, friends respond to the Happily Ever After in their midst.Chapter 1: Lucette/RodChapter 2: Varg/Emelaigne/FritzChapter 3: Chevalier/BriaChapter 4: Klaude/WaltzChapter 5: The Wedding





	1. Freedom

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS FOR EVERY PATH OF CINDERELLA PHENOMENON. Please play the entire game first--it’s a wonderful (and entirely free!) game, and I’d hate to take any of the magic and wonder of playing it for the first time away from anyone.
> 
> I know it’s almost silly to write a post-story fic when there’s a fandisk coming out that will give the true canon epilogues, but I couldn’t help myself. I also know Waltz is True Ending™ but I just love a route where no one has to die, okay. And I also felt like Rod was the only one without a feasible secondary love interest, so… here we are. EVERYONE IS HAPPY. FOREVER. To the best of my abilities, at least. All the chapters are essentially stand alone and you can feel free to skip any of them, if you don’t think a given pairing would be your cup of tea. Just know: happiness, for everyone. It’s important.
> 
> Also, every chapter except Klaude’s is a soft G rating. Klaude’s dirty mouth (dirty brain?) keeps him at T.

While Lucette had become accustomed to many of the new feelings and emotions Rod managed to pull out of her, some entirely, overwhelmingly new, some foreign only in their oddly positive angle, she had somehow never quite managed to master nervousness. Normally, she knew Rod enough--she trusted Rod enough--to believe that he would accept her decisions or let her know her mistakes with honesty but without rancor. There was no point to nervousness with such a reliable emotional safety net; therefore, nervousness was not a familiar companion.

Despite objectively knowing all of that, it still felt like an army of butterflies was trapped in her chest. She pressed a hand over her heart, as though that would calm the butterflies down, and sat delicately on the edge of the table in the unused study she had found several weeks ago, when she had first started planning. Even that small movement was enough to send the table to creaking under its load and Lucette immediately stood, hands fluttering at her side.

Such intolerable fidgeting was unlike a crown princess. Lucette scowled and determinedly stalked around the room, triple-checking that no spot had been overlooked.

The study, perhaps the long-abandoned abode of a former royal scholar or secretary, had only contained a table, a desk, two empty bookshelves, and a heavy layer of dust when Lucette had first found it. Not wanting anyone else to learn of her plans so early, Lucette had spent most of the following week cleaning the room herself. After that, her true plans were able to begin.

Now, every inch of the room was covered with something that Rod liked. The bookshelves were filled with a mixture of musical scores that Rod had mentioned fondly and historical texts that detailed past events in Angielle that Rod had expressed an interest in. The desk bore an empty songbook, for Rod’s use in composing, as well as the finest inkwell and quill that money could possibly buy. The table underneath the window was weighted down with the largest strawberry shortcake Ophelia had been willing to help Lucette bake and a dozen different bouquets of lilies and primroses. In the opposite corner of the room from the desk, Lucette had arranged for a piano to be set up--not a fancy one, but nice enough for practicing, since Rod had turned down all her offers to teach him on the palace’s grand piano in embarrassment at its relatively public location.

On top of the closed piano keyboard was a small, simple wooden box, painted in swirls of navy and gold.

Lucette bit her lip.

Everything in its place. Everything Rod liked. The perfect birthday arrangement.

The butterflies were going to be the death of her.

Emelaigne, whom Lucette had eventually confided in because she hadn’t been sure Rod would’ve gone through with the scavenger hunt without some enthusiastic moral support, had promised that she would make sure Rod’s journey led him to the room at exactly midnight.

The palace bells started tolling. Lucette pushed her palm even harder against her chest, trying to keep her heart from racing.

At twelve o’clock exactly, as the very last clamor of the bells rang out, the door creaked open, leaving the candles on the sconces closest to the door to flicker dramatically in the sudden breeze.

Rod always looked incredible in candlelight. The first sight of him as he stepped into the room, light turning his blond hair into a halo and casting the crisp lines of his shoulders in sharp relief, caused the air to rush from Lucette’s chest all at once. She had never disliked the way Rod had looked, of course, but recently she had started noticing him in a way that made her skin feel like it was itching and on fire on the same time, in a way that made something twist deep inside her gut.

What was she doing?! She had never come up with a position for herself for this moment!

It was too late for her to come up with something now. Rod looked up, face still stuck in an adorable pout, probably disgruntled by being sent on a seemingly never-ending mission at an hour far past the time he normally retired to bed and clearly not expecting the end of his journey yet. He saw Lucette, frozen with indecision in the middle of the room, and frowned, now obviously both tired and confused.

“H-hello,” Lucette managed to choke out, hands tightly fisted at her sides as she fought the urge to run. It already felt like her cheeks were on fire with the heat of the blood racing through them, and she hadn’t even really done anything yet. “I wanted to say it first, before anyone else, so… happy 18th birthday.”

It was too much. She was feeling too much; it was impossible for a normal person to be feeling this much, all at once, surely. She had to look away, just enough so that she could still see Rod out of the corner of her eye.

The frown fell away as Rod took in the room only to turn just as red in the face as Lucette felt, the blush burning away his residual tiredness. He half-turned away, as though to hide his reaction.

“I… didn’t realize you had something so elaborate planned,” he said, his voice as soft as the candlelight. Light danced across his blush in profile, turning him into something that was just… magical. Lucette’s heart thumped hard against her ribs. “I told you I didn’t want anything.”

“I know,” Lucette said, immediately, half-out of breath, which was ridiculous because she hadn’t even done anything particularly strenuous. “I wanted to do it for you.” It felt like her heart was in her throat, half choking her. “I wanted to spoil you a little.”

“I’m not a child, Lucette,” Rod said, though his words were belied by the gentleness of his voice and the slow step he took towards her. “I am not in need of spoiling.”

“I’m sure you did not allow spoiling even when you were a child,” was all Lucette could say to that, smiling a little at the way Rod’s shoulders tightened at her words. Rod turned even redder, the way he always did whenever she smiled, and Lucette remembered, all at once, just how much she loved him.

“It’s all useful, I promise,” she insisted, knowing that she was blushing just as heavily as Rod. “Minus the flowers, maybe. And the cake.”

Rod avoided her eyes, looking around to take everything in. “You don’t need to defend yourself. I understand.” His eyes seemed to catch on the cake. Lucette wondered if he could tell it was an Ophelia creation. Could he tell that she had helped, that she had tried mix after mix, with Ophelia’s aid, until she had made one worthy of him? “It’s similar to what your father would do for your birthday, when you were young, isn’t it? It’s a very thoughtful gesture.”

It was exactly the same as her father’s old birthday surprises, minus a doll for a gift, but Lucette didn’t feel the need to say that. She had only managed to earn that confession from her father recently, and Rod had been the first person she had told. It was probably obvious that it was the realization that this idea had sprung from.

Finally, Rod looked back at her. He smiled, the soft curve of his lips enough to break down Lucette’s entire world and remake it from scratch with Rod at the center. “Thank you,” he said. “This must have been very difficult to arrange. I appreciate--”

“I love you,” Lucette said, unable to hold it back even a minute longer. “I know you know that, but I’m in love with you. I want to tell everyone. I want… I want to marry you.”

Rod’s clear green eyes seemed to go momentarily blank with the shock of the statement.

“My twentieth birthday is a little under a year from now,” Lucette continued, hands slowly curling into fists at her sides. She had come too far to give up. “I want to start planning so that we could announce it then. If… if you approve.” It was only then that she remembered the box on the piano and, in a flurry of nerves and embarrassment, quickly took the steps necessary to reach it and hold it out for Rod’s perusal. He stared at it, at her, at the floor, still blushing bright red in the candlelight, and she belatedly said, “It’s a ring. An engagement ring. In the box. I realize just the box alone might have been confusing.”

She was a mess. She was ruining everything. She bit down hard on her bottom lip and quickly took the box back, hiding it behind her like she could make it disappear that way.

She probably could. She had the magic, after all. She just wasn’t quite sure where it would go, if she tried to send it away when she was so nervous, and she didn’t want the engagement ring she had spent so much time and effort obtaining popping up in someone’s evening tea in Brugantia.

She was holding the box so tightly, the imprint of the corners would probably be visible on her palms for days. The pinch of pain seared through her nerves, deflating her.

“Or maybe this is a ridiculous idea,” she said, unable to stop the hint of bitterness that even she could hear entering her voice. “I’m… I’m sorry.” She edged back toward the piano.

“Don’t.” Rod took several quick steps forward, now directly in front of her instead of hovering awkwardly in front of the doorway. “You’ve already apologized to me enough for a lifetime, Lucette.”

“But you don’t want this,” Lucette concluded, no longer looking away. Rod’s eyebrows, which Lucette had long ago learned were the easiest way to read his emotions, were wrinkled in a mess too difficult for even her to read.

“That’s not true,” Rod said, eyebrows thankfully smoothing as he reached out to tug Lucette’s arms back around to the front so that he could hold her wrists, still not touching the box in her hand. “I want this more than anything, Lucette.” He said it clearly, with more confidence than he’d said anything else yet that evening. 

Lucette’s heart rate calmed slightly at his words. She released her breath in a short sigh. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and she was comforted still further by the gentleness clear in his gaze.

“I just wasn’t expecting this right now,” Rod continued, the flush in his cheeks deepening. “I wasn’t quite prepared, ah. Um. Emotionally.”

“You don’t have to respond right now, I suppose,” Lucette allowed, even though she thought she would probably die if he didn’t give her some sort of answer soon.

“No, it’s not--” Rod shook his head, cutting off his own words. He looked down at the well-swept floor, hiding from her. “My answer is yes. I want to marry you. Please don’t doubt it.” Each word was quieter than the last, as though the mere act of speaking them was draining Rod of his very life force.

Lucette stepped in closer and reached out, delicately cupping Rod’s cheek with the hand not holding the ring box before forcing him to look up enough to meet her eyes. She smiled at him, although she could feel the uncertainty in her own action.

“That would be more believable if you looked at me when you said it,” she said.

Rod huffed a quiet sigh against the inside of her wrist, then turned to kiss the delicate skin there. The brush of his lips against her skin was soft and perfect as a butterfly’s wing. “It will be difficult,” he said, his eyes lifting to focus on her face. His lips and breath brushed her skin with every word in a way that, combined with the intensely focused look in his eyes, made her shiver. “Many people will not approve.”

“Many people did not approve of Ophelia, either,” Lucette said. “I don’t care what other people think. Our parents’ marriage is incidental--it is merely how we met. There is no real argument, legal or otherwise, to be made against our… our union.” Just the word was enough to send her heart thumping heavily against her ribs. “I cannot think of a single thing in my entire life that I want more than to spend the rest of my life with you. There is nothing that would ever change my mind. If there are complaints, they can be addressed to me.”

“Lucette…” Rod laughed, softly and without scorn, then took another step forward and, looping one arm around Lucette’s waist and cradling the back of her head with his other hand, pulled her into a gentle kiss. After only a moment, however, just long enough to make Lucette yearn for more, he pulled back. “How could I argue against such confidence? How could I not be willing to fight just as hard?” He rested his forehead against her temple, both arms now falling to wrap around her waist. Lucette could feel the heat of his blush, even as he used his height and the closeness of his stance to mask it from view. “May I see the ring?”

Of course. She had forgotten--she hadn’t quite run out of things to be nervous about.

The reappearance of the fluttering in her chest was unwelcome, but it did separate her from the moment enough to do as Rod asked. She proffered the box with one hand and slowly opened the lid with the other, angling it to make sure that Rod would be able to see it from over her shoulder.

She had spent a long time trying to find a jeweler who could design a ring that would be perfect, since Rod deserved nothing less. Finally, she had found a man in the market who worked with materials from the sea, including nacre from the inner shell of a mollusc. The resulting material he had shown her, which the jeweler had called “mother of pearl,” had shone with muted greens and blues that reminded Lucette immediately of Rod. She had arranged for the material to be inlaid around the circumference of a golden ring.

The ring shone in the candlelight in almost the exact way of Rod’s eyes, if Rod’s eyes had been lined in gold, and Lucette knew she had made the right choice.

Hopefully Rod would agree.

“I had them place it on a chain, for now,” she said in a low voice, uncomfortable in the silence as they both gazed down at the ring. “So you could wear it before the wedding. If you so wished, of course.”

“It’s… incredible,” Rod said softly, almost muffled by Lucette’s hair. “I’ve never seen anything like it, Lucette. I love it.” He separated from her enough to remove the ring and its chain from the box, immediately moving to clasp it around his neck. Once complete, he stepped back and offered her a small, shy smile. “How does it look?”

Lucette’s heart climbed all the way into her throat, blocking any possible words. She answered instead by throwing herself at him in a desperate hug.

“Perfect,” she finally managed to murmur into his chest after several moments of simply holding him and being held in return. “You’re perfect.”

\--

Their parents had granted their blessing with far less of a struggle than Lucette had been fearing, despite all her confidence the previous night.

“I had suspected this moment would come one day, ever since the time of Lucette’s curse,” Ophelia had admitted, quiet and kind as always. “I’m glad you two didn’t give up. I just want you both to be happy.”

“There will be protests,” her father had pointed out with a frown. “But... I suppose I am not one to stand in between two people in love.” He had taken Ophelia’s hand across the dining table at those words and squeezed it gently.

“I can’t believe you two are going to get married!” Emelaigne had squealed after the others’ responses, clearly not able to contain herself a single moment longer. “I’m so, so happy for you both!”

Being open about her relationship with Rod was a new and endlessly exciting feeling. When Lucette came down to breakfast, she was able to dip down and kiss his cheek without comment. When she walked Rod to his fencing lessons before she headed out to train with Fait (it still felt strange to refer to Parfait by her true name, but the fairy had insisted the crystal bearers should have no lies between them) and Delora, he openly held her hand. They could disappear into the room of the birthday surprise, which had officially been christened Rod’s study, and read or practice music for hours together without worrying about anyone becoming suspicious or disturbing them.

They could dance together, too, whenever and wherever they wanted.

They hadn’t made an official announcement to anyone but their family, since they had decided to save the announcement for Lucette’s birthday, but word was slowly but surely leaking out anyway. Servants talked--to each other, to their families, to friends in town--and the knowledge spread. Lucette knew that it must have finally reached everyone in Angielle when she showed up at the Marchen one afternoon for training with Fait and Delora and Delora immediately pulled her into the reception area by her arm and shoved her into the nearest seat like she was a sack of flour rather than the future queen of her country and current leader of all witch-kind.

“You and Rod are getting _married_?” Delora had demanded, crossing her arms. “Why did no one tell me, the brilliant matchmaker who set you two up in the first place?”

“You didn’t set us up,” Lucette had responded, feeling her eyebrows crinkle as she frowned in spite of herself. “You cursed me and I chose Rod for myself.”

Delora had scoffed. Fait, who had been sitting in the corner of the room, just giggled and said, “What Delora means is that we’re very happy for you both, Lucette.”

“Don’t speak for Delora, Fait! What Delora means is that she’s incredibly hurt and she better have a suitably important role in the wedding to make up for it,” Delora had said. “And that you owe her hot chocolate and gossip as soon as possible.”

Of course, the response hadn’t been perfect from everyone. Lucette was aware of whispers, especially among other nobles, of the unsuitability of the match. The whisperers didn’t seem sure what had insulted them the most: that their future queen was marrying the son of a baker, that their darling golden prince was marrying their evil ice princess, that their crown princess was marrying her step-brother, or that neither of them was marrying the specific noble speaking.

Fortunately, such a variety of attitudes limited any one group from uniting enough to raise a formal complaint.

“We should invite our friends from town, too. And everyone from the Marchen,” Lucette said one night. She was sitting at the piano in Rod’s study, not playing any one song in particular but letting her fingers drift over the keys, segueing from scales to cadenzas and back without playing loudly enough to disturb Rod’s concentration as he read.

“Hm?” Rod said, glancing up from his book and back towards where Lucette was sitting. Lucette saw the way his eyes warmed upon catching sight of her and felt herself melt. Would he ever lose the power to make her blush like a little peasant girl, to feel like her heart was vibrating like a hummingbird within her chest, simply by looking at her? Lucette hoped not.

“We won’t be able to avoid the wedding being a formal affair,” she said, knowing her cheeks were pink for no good reason and looking back down at the piano to try to hide it. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t invite our friends, as well.”

Your friends, was what she meant. While she knew the people in the Marchen were mostly hers, as Rod had never stayed around long enough to make friends there, there were many, many others in town who considered Rod and Emelaigne friends, who had known them far longer than Lucette herself, who loved them just as much, in their own way.

People like Viorica, though Viorica would’ve been invited either way as the wife of a nobleman.

More importantly, they were people that Lucette hadn’t always treated as justly as she should have. People who, before her curse, she had regarded as criminals and fools solely due to their station and who, after her curse, she had regarded jealously as those who stole her beloved’s attention away.

But what was the point of being jealous when she had won Rod, honestly and truly?

There was a short pause, and then the squeak of Rod’s chair moving on the stone floor and the echo of footsteps. Lucette was not overly surprised when Rod slid onto the piano bench next to her, a line of warmth down her side. Of course he had known what she truly meant. He usually did.

“I love you,” he breathed into the stillness of the room, pausing only to gently brush his lips against her pink cheek. “You’re right. Let’s invite everyone. I want all of Angielle to be able to celebrate the beginning of my life with you.”

And what could Lucette possibly say in response to that?

Instead, she kissed him.

It felt like the beginning of forever.


	2. Acceptance

Emelaigne couldn’t have possibly been happier. Her perfect little brother was going to marry one of her dearest friends. They could stop hiding. They would definitely, definitely live happily ever after.

She spied around the hallway corner she had hidden herself behind, but it was impossible to see Rod now. He’d gone into the room, the last step of the scavenger hunt Lucette had arranged for his birthday (and how sweet and thoughtful that was! Lucette really was an incredible dear, Emelaigne had always known she would be!), and Lucette was going to ask her question, and…

Emelaigne was so, so very excited, she didn’t think she could bear it.

She wasn’t paying attention to much beside the empty hallway, daydreaming madly about what might be happening in the room her brother had entered, determined to pry all of the details out of him or Lucette (or both!) later in the day, when all of a sudden a hand came down on her mouth and she was quickly pulled backwards, an arm wrapping around her waist to keep her imprisoned.

It was too sudden. She couldn’t even scream. She stumbled hard, her back nearly crashing into the hard chest of the man who had grabbed her. Then she couldn’t move, pressed impossibly against him.

He was so warm. And so tall. And so strong.

“Well, well, well,” said a soft voice right behind the shell of her ear. “Is the pretty princess playing spy?”

And Emelaigne blushed all the way down to the soles of her shoes, surely, because she knew that voice.

It was Sir Varg.

He had been offered a place in the palace after Sir Mythros had been defeated and Lucette’s curse had been broken, in recognition of him siding with the crown against Sir Alcaster’s military coup, but he had requested to work for his position in the household as a guard. He still wore his mask almost constantly, claiming that it was a cultural difference. Right now, Emelaigne could feel the pointed nose of the mask brushing against the side of her head.

“Sir Varg!” she attempted to protest through the gloved hand covering her mouth. A white-covered thumb swept along the edge of her cheekbone.

“Shh,” he hushed her, voice seeming to tunnel straight from her ear to somewhere in the very core of her body. Emelaigne blushed even harder. “You don’t want to get caught, do you?”

He tugged her back several steps, until they were halfway down the hallway, certainly out of sight of the room Rod had disappeared into. Sir Varg then pushed her back against the hallway wall, in the shadows where the light from the candles didn’t quite reach. He boxed her in with a hand on either side of her head and Emelaigne fought not to shiver.

It was the closest she’d been to Sir Varg since… since before Lucette’s curse had been broken. Since he had requested to be a guard in the household and then seemed to spend every available moment avoiding her.

Even though he’d been so kind, so protective, so… so handsome and perfect, the night of Emelaigne’s ball.

“So what is the pretty princess spying on, so late at night?” Sir Varg hummed, still very, very close. He reached forward to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear, the cool fabric of his glove sliding effortlessly through the blonde strands.

“N-nothing,” Emelaigne said.

Sir Varg tsked at her scoldingly, like a disappointed tutor. “Lying doesn’t suit you, pretty princess.”

Emelaigne was probably scarlet by this point. Why did he have to finally decide to do this tonight? She had been so, so happy for Rod and Lucette and now she was so, so distracted… He smelled so good, something woodsy and manly, and Emelaigne realized she was in danger of swooning, like a heroine in one of the romance stories hidden in the very back of the palace library.

This was so embarrassing. She was out past curfew, he had caught her spying, he had probably only paid attention to her at all because this was his guard shift, and now she was going to faint at his feet and she would never ever ever recover from the embarrassment.

“It’s not my secret to tell,” she managed to say, looking down at the ground rather than meet the eyes behind the mask. 

That gloved hand once again slid against her cheek, as though tracing her blush.

In an odd, soft, impossibly different voice, Sir Varg said, “You… you do not have to fear me, you know. I would never hurt you.”

He thought she was scared? It was enough to overpower Emelaigne’s embarrassment and make her release a soft, helpless huff of laughter. The hand on her cheek immediately retreated.

“I’m not afraid of you,” Emelaigne said, slowly looking up into those golden eyes. Those molten, flashing, endlessly intimidating golden eyes. “You make me feel… like I am in danger of losing control.” There was something about those eyes, something impossibly familiar. Or perhaps she was simply overwhelmed and silly with how much blood was in her head. She closed her eyes tightly.

“Oh?” Sir Varg said, voice low and so, so deep. Emelaigne couldn’t possibly open her eyes again to see what expression matched that voice. She would definitely melt if she tried. “I think I would enjoy seeing the pretty princess lose control.” But, rather than pushing further, the man stepped away and Emelaigne was left alone with her back to the wall. “Another time, I think. Enjoy your spying then, pretty princess. Just be safe.”

By the time Emelaigne opened her eyes, the man was gone. Emelaigne slid down the wall, entirely helpless to the sudden weakness in her legs.

Maybe it was a very, very good thing that she hadn’t been so close to him since her ball, if this was how she was destined to react every time. 

On the other hand, she was just finally realizing why those golden eyes seemed so familiar.

It’d been a little over a year since anyone had seen Sir Fritzgerald. Emelaigne thought she might finally have a lead.

\--

Despite her surprise encounter the previous night, Emelaigne couldn’t stop smiling the next day. Not only were Rod and Lucette officially going to marry (and with the approval of their parents! Emelaigne had known it could only end this way, but she was still so very relieved!), but she officially had a plan for the perfect wedding present.

She was going to bring Lucette’s personal guard back to her.

At the conclusion of breakfast, when Rod left for fencing practice and Lucette left to go into town to train her magic, Emelaigne claimed she had reading to do in the library and headed in the opposite direction from them.

As soon as she was free of observers (thank goodness father had decided she didn’t need a personal maid, after all the trickery with Lucette’s disguise!), she rerouted herself toward the knights’ practice field. 

It wasn’t odd to know the vague outlines of Sir Varg’s schedule, she told herself, it just meant she paid attention to her surroundings on occasion, but she was blushing even as she thought it, so it probably wouldn’t have been very believable to anyone else, either. 

Just as she knew he would be, Sir Varg was out in the knights’ practice field, training with Garlan, Jurien, and several others of the Order of Caldira. She took a deep breath, reminded herself that this was for Lucette, and took a bold step out onto the muddy field.

“Sir Varg!” she called out. “May I have a moment of your time?”

Sir Varg immediately turned at the sound of her voice. He paused for a moment, as if studying her carefully even from across the wide length of the field, then appeared to make his apologies to the other knights before walking briskly over to where she was standing.

“Princess,” he acknowledged. His voice was flat and uninterested, quite different from the heated murmur in her ear from the previous night. “There is no need to get your dress dirty.”

She wouldn’t allow this reception to discourage her! Clearly, he needed her help, even if he’d never ask for it himself.

She shored up all of her bravery and faced him down, hands clutching each other nervously behind her back. That was okay! He wouldn’t see them; he wouldn’t know how frightened she was of saying the wrong thing. “Is there a reason why you no longer wish to go by the name of ‘Fritzgerald’?” she asked with a small smile to take the bite out of the words, voice thankfully steady even as her fingers jittered behind her.

It was clearly not the question he had expected, but the only sign that gave that fact away was the quick twitch of his right hand, as though reaching for a sword in a different location than he normally kept it.

“Are you referring to my cousin?” he asked. “I know he’s been missing.”

“I know he’s you,” Emelaigne said. She stood, tall and strong. This was the right thing to do, she reminded herself even as her fingers continued to fidget against her will. She was going to make her friends so happy! “I recognized your eyes, Sir Fritzgerald.”

“Yellow eyes run in the Leverton family,” Sir Varg said coldly. “If you’ll excuse me, princess.”

And with that, he was gone. Not even back to the other knights, just… gone.

How did he even manage that sort of thing?!

Emelaigne bit down lightly on her lower lip, trying to regroup. It had been a long-shot, perhaps, thinking that the direct approach would work. But that was merely step one of the plan!

She retreated to the library. She needed a little bit more background reading on this topic. Besides, she hated lying, and she had told Rod and Lucette she’d be going to the library, after all.

It was within the library, only a few hours later, that Sir Varg found her.

He was able to take her by surprise once again. Emelaigne really needed to pay more attention to her surroundings! One minute she was rereading a novel about a man who drank a magic potion he had concocted to bring a second personality to life, and the next minute Sir Varg’s cane was tapping the page she was on and Sir Varg’s voice was saying, “That’s not a Fairytale, you know. The Fairytale Curse would not apply.”

Emelaigne couldn’t help gasping and startling, nearly closing her book on Sir Varg’s cane. He retracted it in time, however, and merely smiled down at her. It was a sharp smile, like a slice from a sword, clearly not intended to express true pleasure.

“So you admit that it’s the Fairytale Curse!” Emelaigne said, even as she turned pink with embarrassment at being caught mid-research and hurried away to replace the book on the shelf she had taken it from, conveniently hiding her red face by facing the shelves.

Sir Varg kept up with her, step for step, even as she fled among the shelves. “I have said no such thing,” he said. “I just don’t want you to waste your time on a fool’s errand.”

“It’s not foolish if it saves you!” Emelaigne said, still not meeting his eyes as she reshelved the book. If she met his eyes, she’d probably just become all woozy and swoony again--she needed to stay strong!

“And who says I need saving, pretty princess?” asked Sir Varg, leaning in to murmur the words into her ear.

It was positively unfair! He had to have an idea of the effect of his behavior on her.

“I think you are unhappy,” she said, refusing to look away from the bookshelf.

“Oh?” Sir Varg hummed. His breath was so very warm. She was positively melting.

Emelaigne rested a hand on the bookshelf, pretending to be studying the spine of another book when she really just needed the extra support. Her knees felt all wobbly, like they were going to go out from underneath her at any second. It was entirely unfair!

“You only really smile when you’ve been given a sweet snack from the kitchen and are eating it alone,” she said to the bookshelf. Oh, admitting that she knew this was so embarrassing! She didn’t even have the excuse that she was investigating his connection to Sir Fritzgerald, not before today. She had just… been keeping an eye out for him, the past couple of years. “You don’t spend much time with anyone, outside of your duties. And you never leave the palace to visit town.”

She was suddenly cold and realized that Sir Varg had pulled back several steps.

“I see that the pretty princess has been keeping an eye on me,” he said, because she was utterly transparent and awful and now he knew that too. “You do realize that I only danced with you at your ball all those months ago as part of Sir Mythros’ trap for Sir Alcaster, correct?”

“It’s not about that!” Emelaigne declared, turning quickly to face him, desperate to convince him. It wasn’t! He was misunderstanding! “I just can’t bear seeing how unhappy you are!”

Especially since it seemed like he didn’t have anywhere else to go. 

No one, not a single person in the entire country, would ever feel trapped like that, if Emelaigne had anything to say about it. 

Sir Varg was watching her, expression impossible to read behind his dark mask.

“I think you’re fine this way, Sir Fritzgerald,” Emelaigne said out loud. “But only if you’re happy this way. If not, then I want you to have whatever would make you happy.”

Sir Varg strode forward, his strides impossibly long and quick, until he was once more right in front of her. His grip was tight on the end of his cane, so tight that his gloves were bunching under the strain.

“Whatever would make me happy, pretty princess?” he said, once again reaching up to touch the ends of her hair with his free hand, much like he had the previous night. “And what if I wanted you? Would you give in even to that, despite the fact that I am _not_ , actually, Sir Fritzgerald?”

Emelaigne was going to combust. She really, really wished he were speaking the truth. But… “I know you don’t,” she managed to say out loud. She fought the frog in her throat that told her tears were coming. This was not about her! She needed to make this work as a present for Lucette! “I have… made it rather clear, I think, that you could have me, if you wanted. But you don’t want me. That’s why you’ve avoided me, when it would’ve been so easy to…” To court her, especially after that dance at the ball. Emelaigne had been so hopeful at first, but… “There’s something else you want, and that’s why you’re still hidden, why you never let Princess Lucette know about your Fairytale Curse so that she could break it.”

Sir Varg was frozen in front of her, a few strands of her hair still spilling over his gloved fingers.

“That’s why you should just tell me what curse it is!” Emelaigne continued. “It would save a lot of time…”

“No,” said Sir Varg abruptly, stepping back once more. Still, he was close enough that Emelaigne could see that his eyes were narrowed behind his mask. “You have… an exceptionally kind heart, pretty princess. But you are wrong. I am not cursed. I am not Fritz. I… am not a man who deserves to have what I want. You must give up your efforts, now.”

She definitely wasn’t wrong. 

“I won’t give up,” she said. “Not until I can discover how to make you happy.”

Without another word, Sir Varg twisted on his heel and left. 

It wasn’t quick enough.

The moment before he had turned, Emelaigne had seen the soft, helpless curve of the side of his lips.

It had been a real smile.

She was already making progress!

\--

After several long days’ work in the library, days in which Sir Varg successfully avoided Emelaigne altogether, even apparently changing his schedule so that she couldn’t find him to ask questions, Emelaigne had managed to narrow the possible Fairytales down to three.

There was Aladdin, which would explain being trapped in a new identity--perhaps due to wishing to marry a princess?--but not why that identity would be of the exact same social class as the last one. Regardless, a princess’ love was what preserved his disguise, not what saved him from it. It didn’t quite explain why Sir Fritzgerald had never returned to his normal state.

There was Catskin, which would explain taking on a new identity to attend a ball, in particular, but not the idea of revenge that the tale had. Sir Varg and Sir Fritzgerald both appeared to entirely lack a vengeful bone in their bodies, as far as Emelaigne could tell.

And last but, in Emelaigne’s opinion, the most likely of all the Fairytales was King Thrushbeard. A man used a disguise to get close to a princess who normally scorned him and then tricked her into wedlock to redeem her cruel nature. He revealed his true identity only when the princess became compassionate and humble.

But if it was indeed the Thrushbeard curse, what was supposed to break it?

The more Emelaigne pored over the stories in the books in the library, the more distraught she felt. Most of the Fairytales implied that Sir Fritzgerald only would have taken on such a curse due to romantic feelings for Princess Lucette. If Emelaigne truly wanted to break the curse, would it require her trying to interfere between her brother and his one true love? Could Fritzgerald only be saved by breaking Rod’s heart?

It wasn’t fair.

But, as Emelaigne continued to read, as she continued to lose hope, she finally remembered that understanding the curse wasn’t the only option.

At lunch a few days after her realization, Emelaigne asked, as delicately as she could, “Lucette? Would you be able to tell if there were still those in the country suffering under the Fairytale Curse?”

She felt horrible for interrupting the adorable glancing-at-each-other-then-looking-away her brother and Lucette were engaging in, but Lucette still gave her all of her attention as soon as she asked. “I believe so. Parfait has taught me to use the crystal as a focus to identify magical spots, and I think I’ve managed to fix all of the curse by now. All of it that was in the capital, certainly.”

Could Sir Varg have been honest when he said that it wasn’t a curse?

Or was he hidden from Lucette’s magic, for some reason?

Magic was so very difficult. Emelaigne was very, very glad that she was not a witch. Lucette was so admirable! She dealt with all of that power and responsibility so adeptly, and was a genuinely kind person on top of it!

The information, however, did not help Emelaigne at all. If she wasn’t able to use true love to break the curse and she wasn’t able to use Lucette to break the curse, then, well...

Part two of her plan was officially stuck.

On to part three, for better or worse.

As soon as lunch was done, Emelaigne excused herself into town. She went to the best bakery she knew (besides her family’s own, of course!) and ordered the sweetest, most delicious dessert they had. 

She tried to hurry back to the palace as quickly as she could, a slice of chocolate cake in a small box in her hand. Maybe, if she went fast enough, he wouldn’t have time to escape.

It had been well planned. Sir Varg, thinking she was going to be in town for a while visiting friends, as she usually was when she went out, had taken the free moment to spar alone in the practice ground.

Emelaigne congratulated herself on her strategic thinking and, alone with her cake, stepped out onto the field.

It took Sir Varg several moments to notice her. It was clear the moment he did, though, as he froze mid-thrust, clearly uncertain of how to respond.

It was unusual and, embarrassingly, a little gratifying to see him so unsure.

Emelaigne took his moment of indecision to run forward, suddenly dreading the thought of him disappearing on her once again.

“Please don’t run!” she panted when she was close enough to be heard. She was so very glad she hadn’t tripped over the hem of her gown; that would have been truly embarrassing! “Please!”

Slowly, clearly reluctant to oblige, Sir Varg lowered his sword.

“What is it?” Sir Varg asked, though his voice remained flat and emotionless, making the words sound very little like a question.

“I… I’m sorry,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “I… I came to apologize.”

Sir Varg finally looked at her. His golden eyes were piercing through the darkness of his mask. “Apologize,” he repeated after her.

“Yes,” she said, and she offered the container of cake. “I’ve brought chocolate cake.”

Sir Varg’s eyes darted down to the container before once more looking up at her, so narrow and sharp. He was all angles, even beneath the layers and frills of his outfit, and Emelaigne had never seen someone more attractive, not ever. Not besides Sir Fritzgerald, of course. Not that Emelaigne was even sure that counted, in this circumstance.

“It’s for you.” She took yet another deep breath, steadying herself, her hands only fidgeting a little with the edges of the container. “It’s an apology present. I don’t think I can break your curse. I’m really sorry. I just… I think the only way to break it would be to have Lucette love you back, and I… I can’t hurt Rod like that, I…”

“Princess Lucette?” Sir Varg asked, and if Emelaigne hadn’t been utterly unable to look away from his face, she might have missed the way his sharp golden eyes had softened at the name, the way his expression had turned into pure Fritzgerald.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, miserably. Love wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that some people could love the same people as other people and that… and that some people wouldn’t get their happily ever afters in the end.

It wasn’t fair that, in the end, the best plan she could come up with to help Sir Varg was just to apologize for not being able to help him.

Sir Varg surprised her by taking the outstretched cake box and… sighing. It was a softer sound than any she’d ever heard from him.

“Come with me, Princess Emelaigne,” he said, and that might have been the first time in months that he’d called her anything but ‘pretty princess,’ and that alone was enough to make her trail after him, uncertain of where they were going.

Her feeling of confusion rose as he led her to the depths of the library, put the box of cake down on the nearest table, and pulled out a book. He flipped through several pages and then showed her the title of the chapter he had stopped on.

“Little Red Riding Hood.”

That made no sense. No one disguised himself or transformed into anyone in Little Red Riding Hood.

“It’s not a transformation,” Sir Varg said quietly, as though he was reading her mind. “And it’s not a disguise. It’s never been about wooing royalty. The ‘big bad wolf’ that Mythros and Alcaster wanted to help them in their hunt... that has always been a part of me. It’s just a set of dominant personality traits, that’s all. And I’m not cursed any longer, not truly. There is no one to hold the wolf’s leash, as it were. All my curse did was show another side of who I was. No one could take ‘my curse’ away, because it’s just part of who I am. And it always has been.” He sighed, snapping the book shut and turning away to shelve it. “So stop blaming yourself for not ‘saving’ me, pretty princess. I do not need saving. And I am certainly not in love with Princess Lucette, though I of course want to stay close by her.” He seemed to war with himself for a minute before saying, still turned toward the bookshelf. “And you. Stay close to you as well, I mean.” He laughed, back to the snapping, harsh laughter Emelaigne was used to. “You two certainly are in need of plenty of protection.”

“Will you be my escort to the wedding?” Emelaigne blurted out. She flushed, hard, and clapped her hands over her mouth as soon as the words came out. It hadn’t been what she had meant to say in response to that confession at all. He had bared himself to her, admitted so much, and all she could think about was dancing with him again. She was a mess!

Sir Varg finally turned back to face her, clearly stunned by her words, eyes wide and all gold, so much gold, behind the mask.

“As… as you,” she said, hands falling back to her sides. There was no turning back now! “Not as ‘Sir Varg,’ so you have an excuse, but as… as Sir Fritzgerald. But the Sir Fritzgerald that is you. Both of you. All of you.” Her face was going to catch on fire, definitely! Why did she have to be so awkward and uncouth? She was sure Rod and Lucette never had to deal with this uncomfortableness! Everything was probably easy, when it was true love. “Not hiding anything, I mean,” she finished, weakly. “I think it would make Lucette happy to know you’re okay, even if there’s more to you than she knew. And I… I want you to be able to be _all_ of you. With me. If you want.”

Sir Varg was still staring at her like she had said something truly profound rather than stumbled her way into an embarrassing mess of words that she was never ever ever ever going to escape.

She looked down, at the books, anywhere but at him. At least he was good enough at avoiding her that she’d probably never see him again after this, even if she tried really hard to find him!

Her darting eyes caught sight of the cake box on the table again. “You… you should have some cake,” she said, quietly. It felt like she had used up all of the air in her lungs in awkward confessions.

And Sir Varg laughed again.

But it was real, this time.

It was belly-deep, rounded and rolling rather than sharp and barking or soft and hidden, and Emelaigne couldn’t help the way her gaze immediately darted back to him. Was he laughing at her?

Before she could say anything else, before she could do anything else, Sir Varg--no, Sir Fritzgerald (both, neither, why did it matter? It was him, it was always him, and she had always selfishly, sillily adored him, every part of him) was crowding her back against the nearest bookshelf.

“You, ah,” she gave a brief, hiccuping laugh of her own. “You really like pressing me against things…?”

“Yes,” Sir Varg said, eyes bright and shining and right in front of her. He reached up and took off his mask, tossing it carelessly back in the direction of the table. Sir Fritzgerald’s open, honest, incredibly handsome face gazed back at her and she was honestly, definitely melting. “Is that alright with you?”

“Yes,” squeaked Emelaigne immediately, before she flushed at her own honesty. He laughed at her blush. He was never going to stop laughing at her, at this rate! 

It ceased to matter when he leaned in. A gloved finger came up and ran gently over her lips.

“For what it’s worth,” he breathed out, hand dropping so he could lean in even closer, practically speaking into her very soul, “I do want you. I have wanted you, my pretty, honest, warm-hearted princess. Is that alright, too?” Emelaigne could feel the vibration of each word across her own lips.

Rather than answer with words, she surged up onto her tiptoes and kissed him first.

Well. She not only had her present for Lucette figured out, she had a date to the wedding. And she hadn’t even needed to interfere with True Love for it!

If this wasn’t a happily ever after, she wasn’t sure what was.


	3. Forgiveness

The invitation was on the kitchen table when Chevalier got home from work that day.

Bria was not in the kitchen at all.

Chevalier brushed off the small wince of mistrust. It was a constant fight, in his life--had Bria left? Had she cheated, again?

But he knew it was the same for her. Had Chevalier forgotten about her? Had he decided to ignore her, her existence, her wishes, her desires, all of it, again?

Their relationship was a constant negotiation--but it was still theirs. And, when it really came down to it, what part of life wasn’t a matter of negotiation?

Bria had taught him that. Had taught him a lot. Had brought his memories and his name back to him when he had given it all away, had tried to remain by his side no matter what, no matter how much trouble he caused her.

And he was going to return the favor.

He ignored the paper on the table and found Bria up in their bedroom, putting away laundry. He watched her from the doorway, admiring the sure, no-nonsense way she folded and shelved each garment. Her fingers were confident and delicate--a surgeon’s fingers, he had told her before, kissing each one at the tip. She had rolled her eyes and told him that he needed to learn to leave work at work.

So he tried. It was hard. He had recently taken up knitting, though. Bria complained about the cost of the wool and his relative skill, but she’d still wear the scarf he had made her whenever she went out into town. “At least it’s warm,” she’d say, whenever he brought attention to it. It was enough to leave him grinning all day.

He was grinning now, a besotted fool’s grin as he watched his wife fold laundry.

“Stop grinning like an idiot,” she groused. She hadn’t even turned around. She had always had a sense for him. She had found him when he was missing, after all. “Come help me, will you?”

He knew how this would go, but he still went. It was like there was a latch inside his heart where a string was tied, and Bria could tug that string with the gentlest motion and he would just go, no matter what was waiting on the other end.

He’d always return to her side.

Sure enough, he folded one shirt, held up the finished product for Bria’s approval, and was immediately and dryly told to stick to his day job as Bria took the shirt from him and refolded it from scratch.

So he sat down on the bed and watched her.

“There’s an invitation on the table,” Bria said, after several more shirts had been folded and shelved. Chevalier simply hummed in acknowledgement. He had seen the invitation. He hadn’t looked closely, but he was vaguely aware of its existence. “It looks like we’ve been invited to the Crown Princess’ wedding.”

That startled him enough to break him out of his pleasant post-work-time-with-wife haze. “Princess Lucette is getting married?”

“To her step-brother,” Bria confirmed, turning to glance at him out of the corner of her eye. “I’m not sure why we were invited.” There was a current running underneath her words, the suspicion she couldn’t ever quite shake. Did Chevalier know them? Did Chevalier treat them? Royalty? Did he even ignore payment from royalty?

“When I was cursed,” Chevalier began, “the timing of it overlapped with the princess’ own curse. I met her briefly at the inn I was staying at. Prince Rod would visit too--you remember that he used to have a curse of his own.”

“Oh, yes,” Bria said. She looked back at the laundry, shoulders visibly easing. “It’s quite kind of them to remember you, after all this time.”

Chevalier leaned forward and kissed the closest shoulder. He couldn’t blame her for her fears. He had fears of his own, after all. 

He was a doctor. He knew fear wasn’t always rational.

The only medication they could offer one another was a healthy dose of honesty, delivered regularly through the syringe of open communication.

And so with honesty he would fight for her, for as long as it took, because Bria was worth fighting for. 

“Have I ever told you that you have a dancer’s hands?” he murmured over her shoulder, resting his chin against her.

Bria paused in her laundry folding. He could see her smile from his place beside her, a gentle, secretive tilt of her lips. “No,” she said. “That one’s new.”

“Dance with me,” Chevalier suggested. 

“Not until after the clothes are away.”

“The clothes will still be there after a dance,” Chevalier said. He stood up, bowing and offering her a gentlemanly hand. “We have a royal wedding to practice for, after all.”

Bria sighed, but she was still smiling. “You hopeless romantic,” she said, standing and taking his hand.

“Not so hopeless,” he said, grinning and dropping a kiss into her hair as he tugged her close enough so that she could rest against his chest as she followed his lead. “I won my happily ever after in the end, after all. Even magic couldn’t keep me away from you.”

“You sap,” Bria said, but she followed his lead willingly as he waltzed her across the bedroom, taking advantage of every available space to twist and twirl her until she was laughing with it, hiding her smiles in his chest. 

It was a compromise. It was a negotiation. But it was worth it.

\--

“What sort of present can we even hope to offer to royalty?”

Bria was worrying. Chevalier hated to see her worry. 

“They’re friends, not just royalty,” he reassured her. “I’m sure the pleasant nature of our company will--”

All Bria had to do was glare at him and it was like someone shut down his entire vocal system. His words died into a brief whimper and then he smiled back at her, weakly.

“We have to bring something,” she said, voice all edges. 

“Yes, dear,” said Chevalier, meekly. 

She immediately softened, looping her free arm through his and kissing his cheek. They were on their way back from their evening shopping trip to restock both Chevalier’s clinic and their own groceries. It had been a pleasant evening; Chevalier had made more that day in visits from patients than he had paid out for supplies and upkeep, which was always a pleasant day for the two of them.

“It doesn’t have to be something spectacular,” Bria said thoughtfully, holding Chevalier close. “I was thinking along the lines of a sentimental gift. But you’re the one who knows them, not me. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

They walked in silence for a few minutes, both caught up in their own thoughts. The sun was setting, turning the city into a glorious jewel of reds and purples. 

Love colors.

“We’ll write them a book,” Chevalier said slowly. The idea was barely a glimmer of a thought in his mind and he didn’t want to lose it. “Let’s write them a book of advice and guidance for their marriage. They’re both young and inexperienced, and Princess Lucette especially is not very worldly. They could use some advice, I think. Plus, when they knew me, they knew I was looking for journal entries. It can be a reminder of my time with them, as--Mmf!”

Bria had pulled him down into a hard kiss, clinging to him, having dropped the groceries in her sudden urgency.

“Chevalier,” she murmured when she finally broke away, gazing into his eyes with honest, unflinching admiration. He had always loved her eyes. They always showed exactly what she was feeling. It made it easier to trust, with eyes so honest and empty of clouds. “Sometimes… sometimes I think you’re the sweetest man I’ve ever met.”

Chevalier smiled down at her helplessly, cupping her cheek in a palm. “And I know I still don’t come within a breath of deserving you.” He gently brushed her hair back, tucked it behind her ear. He was going to treasure her forever; never again would she feel lonely and ignored, not on his watch. “You think it’s a good idea?”

“I think it’s a perfect idea,” Bria said, using the excuse of straightening his scarf to drag her hands across his chest. “I think… I _know_ you’re already as close to perfect as any man could possibly be. Because you’re willing to try to be.”

“Only because I have an excellent teacher,” Chevalier told her with a wink. She rolled her eyes at him, but once more entwined her arm with his before picking up the bag of groceries and returning to their journey home.

“We should make sure to tell them that fights are not the end, only a chance for a new beginning,” Bria said quietly as they walked. “That compromise is as important as love.”

It took her several more steps to realize that Chevalier had fallen away in the middle of her sentence. When she turned to see him, he offered her the sweetest smile he could possibly summon.

“Chevalier,” she said, voice deadpan and no-nonsense. All her clear eyes were communicating now was a laser-focused message of ‘I know you, and you’re not getting away with this.’

“It’s homeless!” Chevalier cried, holding up the bedraggled kitten he had heard mewling and then spotted as it had peeked around an alley corner. He had dropped Bria’s arm in order to swoop in and pick the creature up. “It’s all alone in the world, Bria!”

Bria stared at him, emotionless. It only took a heartbeat for the look to crack, for her to let out a sharp breath that was pretending it wasn’t a laugh and to look away, hiding her mouth behind her hand.

“... one cat,” she said. “We can take in one homeless cat.”

Chevalier beamed and bounded forward to place a smacking kiss on Bria’s cheek. “You’re wonderful, my love,” he whispered into her ear, cuddling the cat close to his chest.

“Yes, well,” Bria said, still hiding her face in her hand, seemingly unmoved by Chevalier’s adorable cheek kiss. Chevalier knew better. She was practically glowing. “You’ll need to raise prices. Just a little bit. So we can afford the veterinarian and food and other expenses.”

“I will,” Chevalier promised. “... on wealthier patients, at least.”

Bria sighed into her hand. “Done.”

“I love you,” Chevalier sing-songed as they continued home.

Bria finally looked up, her gaze drifting from the tiny little ball of gray fluff in Chevalier’s arms to the irrepressible smile on his face.

“I love you too,” she admitted, smiling a small, helpless smile back. 

Chevalier would probably spend a lot of time on the book of advice for the Princess and the Prince. But he already knew what his first, biggest, most important piece of advice was going to be. As soon as they returned home, while Bria was busy setting up a bowl of food for the kitten, he pulled out a fresh journal and wrote it, big and strong on the very first page.

“If you love each other, if you’re a true team, then it’s worth working for.”

“What’s worth working for?” Bria asked as the kitten, happily fed, gamboled around her feet.

Chevalier smiled, reaching out to take her beautiful, delicate surgeon/knitter’s hands in his own. 

“Everything,” he said.

Bria blushed like she last had on their wedding day and glanced away from him.

“I love you,” she said like it was a breath, like it was being pulled from the deepest, most honest part of her.

And a love like that was worth working for.


	4. Trust

When Princess Lucette had first come back to the Marchen to use her power to break the spells on everyone who still remained cursed, the biggest surprise hadn’t been that the absence of his curse had felt, well, about the same as the presence of his curse had felt, but rather that Waltz had cornered him immediately afterwards, before he had gotten quite used to the fact that this new Waltz was somehow both taller and, preposterously, _older_ than him, how bizarre was that? and said, not quite meeting his eyes, “I know you’re going to return to Brugantia now. Would you mind if I came with you?”

Two years had passed since then and, while Klaude didn’t think he had any regrets about letting his friend accompany him home and stay with his family, he was beginning to think he finally understood why he might have asked in the first place.

Waltz had not stopped smiling since they had received the wedding invitation.

That had been weeks ago.

“Gross,” Lance said from the horse next to him.

Klaude tore his eyes away from Waltz’s back, looking down at the back of his own horse’s neck instead. He couldn’t even see the smile right now, but he knew it was there. Haunting him. Like a pleasant little curving ghost.

Wow, he was such a creep.

He reached over and flicked Lance’s ear without looking at him, because baby brothers should know their place, even if he was right and Klaude was grossing even himself out. Also, it felt good to rid himself of some of the jittery tension that had been filling him since before this trip began.

“Shut up, Llama,” he said, calmly.

“Just tell him you’re grossly in love with him already and get it over with, _Karma_ ,” Lance advised him grumpily, rubbing at his ear, seeming not to care about the eavesdropping ears of the knights, their personal guard, surrounding them.

Klaude was very, very aware of the eavesdropping ears of everyone around them. He could feel himself flushing in a way he didn’t usually flush.

Stupid pale skin.

Stupid baby brother.

“Now who’s gross?” he said out loud. “He’s a man, you realize.”

“Makes one of you,” Lance sing-songed, _sotto voce_.

And that was enough of that. Klaude nudged his horse to pick up the pace. Waltz wasn’t going to pick on him like this, at least.

He’d just have to deal with that smile, instead.

Ugh.

“So that’s what this was all about,” he said abruptly as he reached Waltz’s side and slowed his horse to keep pace with Waltz’s. “You’re so mushy and mature that you love her and want her to be happy, even if it’s not with you.”

“Hm?” Waltz glanced at him, clearly having not heard him at all. Maybe Klaude had spoken a little quieter than necessary. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to be heard. Maybe he didn’t actually want his theory to be proven. Whatever. Everything was fine. When it was clear Klaude wasn’t going to repeat himself, Waltz glanced behind them before grinning over at him (always with the grins these days, it was driving Klaude insane) and saying, “Fleeing Prince Lance already? We haven’t even been on the road two days yet.”

“That Llama doesn’t know when to stop,” Klaude groused. Waltz just laughed at him, not even bothering to hide it.

“What was it this time?” Waltz asked, ducking slightly to avoid a branch hanging over the path. Klaude didn’t need to duck to avoid it, and he was the third tallest member of their entire party (stupid beanpole of a baby brother). It was still absurd, little Waltz being so impossibly tall. And strong. And muscled like a panther. And what the hell was Klaude’s problem, anyway? Lance had gotten into his head, that was the problem. And Waltz was all charming magician secrets and smiles and unexpectedly adult muscles and really well designed bodily proportions that sometimes sparred shirtless, that was also a problem.

Klaude didn’t really want to think about why it was a problem. It just was.

Waltz was still speaking. Klaude had no idea what he had said. He had been distracted by that stupid smile. What the hell. Klaude had _so many problems_.

“You’re really happy Princess Lucette is getting married, hm?” Klaude said, ignoring whatever it was Waltz had actually been saying. It was a slightly different approach than the “you wanted her to be happy approach.” It gave Waltz less of a motive. Klaude felt slightly more comfortable saying it. He was able to say it at an audible volume, at least.

Waltz didn’t seem startled by the question. “Yes,” he admitted, openly pleased. His stupid grin widened. “I’m really glad she’s found a way to be happy.”

Klaude suddenly felt bad for pressing so hard. He had known about Waltz’s backstory with the princess, after all. Waltz had told him on their trip to Brugantia, two years ago. Waltz hadn’t wanted to pressure her with memories she’d never regain, memories of a childhood friendship that was clearly of greater value to Waltz than it could ever be for Lucette, and so he had left. He had made no secret of this, to Klaude.

And yet it still didn’t quite explain why he was so happy about her getting married.

He realized he was frowning and looking generally confused when Waltz started laughing at him. 

“Don’t laugh at me when I’m feeling bad for you, kid,” Klaude had said, pouting. He only realized it was his well-known Lady Killer’s Pout, despite there being no ladies in sight (their father had forbidden female guards for the two of them after Lance had seduced the fifth one; his baby brother was actually the worst human in existence), and immediately stopped himself, frowning more naturally.

“I’m seriously going to punch you,” Waltz said, eyes calm and focused as he delivered his usual response to being called ‘kid’ by Klaude. “Why would you feel bad for me?”

He was always so calm and collected, it made Klaude want to punch _him_ , wreck _him_ , destroy that facade, make him show… something. Anything. Anything that would just be Klaude’s to see. 

Klaude might be tied for the worst human in existence. He was willing to acknowledge it. Just not in front of Lance.

“Didn’t you love her?” Klaude asked, eyes focused on Waltz’s face. If there was a flinch, if there was a tremor, dammit, he was going to see it. And catalogue it. And never ever forget it.

Ugh, he was so gross. He hated himself.

It was a good thing he was also beautiful. He’d manage. Probably.

“I did,” Waltz admitted, easily. “I still do love her. I treasure her. And that’s why I want her to be happy.”

“Strange,” Klaude said, facing ahead now. He was suddenly realizing that, actually, he really didn’t want to see Waltz’s face when he was talking about Princess Lucette. “If it was me, I’d challenge him to a duel for her. Even if you’re too noble to use your magic, you’ve been sparring with Lance and I. You could probably take Prince Rod in a fight, by now. I’ve heard he’s terrible at the sword.”

Waltz was laughing at him again, a light and easy chuckle. “I don’t want to marry Princess Lucette,” he managed to say when Klaude had finished. “I’m serious. I’m glad she’s happy. I love her. I’m not in love with her.” He shrugged, eyes slipping away slightly, honest and honorable to a fault. “Maybe I could’ve been, once. But I’m glad things turned out this way. There would have been a lot of... emotional baggage for her, if we had tried to pursue a relationship without her memories of me. Although I guess choosing to marry her step-brother isn’t much better for her, on the baggage front.”

Klaude was frowning again. “So you’re perfectly willing to dance with someone else at the wedding of the girl you love?” 

Klaude couldn’t have done it. Klaude struggled to share dessert with his brother.

“Yes, Klaude,” Waltz said, easy as anything. “After all, I’m not a narcissist. Although I’ll still be lucky to get a dance in, with you and your brother around to steal all the attention.”

“You can hold my drinks for me and carry around my bags,” Klaude said loftily, settling into a more familiar pattern with his old friend. “It’ll be just like old times.”

“Only if you let me help with your make-up,” Waltz returned, serious as always, even as his crimson eyes twinkled in a way that absolutely did not make Klaude’s heart flip over, because that would have been ridiculous.

“Unfortunately, I don’t think I have any dresses that fit anymore. You’ll have to find a different canvas for your art.”

“It’s a shame.” Waltz turned his horse to continue following the path. Klaude followed him, eyes drawn despite himself to the powerful width of Waltz’s so very adult back. “You were the most beautiful material I ever worked with, you know. You still would be, spell or no spell.”

The worst part was that Klaude knew he meant it, knew that it wasn’t flippant or flattery or flirting, it was just Waltz being Waltz, stupidly honest to a stupid fault.

Klaude had no idea how he did it.

“Waltz, Klaude! If you two are done flirting, then you might realize the rest of us have stopped for lunch!”

It was Lance, of course, yelling down the wooded path, and Klaude was seriously going to murder him. If marrying a baby brother was legal in Angielle, maybe murdering one would be as well. He’d ask Princess Lucette about it at the first available opportunity.

Waltz was just chuckling at his brother’s comments, of course. He looked back and Klaude could see that he still had that stupid grin on his stupid face. 

Klaude was actually a human disaster. 

“If the rest of you rode more quickly, we wouldn’t lose sight of you!” Waltz called back. He had always treated Lance like a little brother of his own, and Lance usually looked up to him more than anyone else, except when it came to opportunities to use him to make fun of Klaude. “We’ll be right back!”

“Ugh, must we?” Klaude muttered. “Can’t we just keep riding and leave them behind?”

Waltz eyed him speculatively. “Do you really want to?”

Klaude didn’t even need to think about it for a second. “Yes.”

Waltz shrugged. Still grinning. Naturally. “Then I’m with you.”

It was like an iron bar had suddenly been struck from Klaude’s chest, freeing his heart to flutter as he wheeled his horse around to face his brother and the knights, several long paces behind them. Wow, he really hadn’t noticed how far in the dust they’d left the others.

Their loss.

“We’re going to go on ahead!” he called out. “Waltz will keep me safe. See you all at the palace!”

He quickly turned back to face forward, called out “go!” to Waltz, and kneed his horse into taking off before any of the knights could question or stop them.

After all, what was the worst that could happen?

\--

“We possibly should have stayed with the guards,” Klaude muttered over his shoulder.

Waltz, standing with his back pressed to Klaude’s own, hands ready to work some magic but not yet drawing attention to himself, shrugged. “No, we have this under control. I believe in you to keep me safe, _Prince_ Klaude.”

Klaude knew he was being smirked at even though he couldn’t see his friend’s face at the moment.

“Watch yourself, kid,” he muttered. “Aren’t _you_ supposed to be guarding _me_?”

“Call me ‘kid’ one more time, kid, and we’ll see about that.”

The group of bandits surrounding them moved in closer. The leader waved a torch in their direction.

“No talking!” he demanded. “We’ve got arrows on you! All we want are your valuables and…” A gross, lecherous grin. “And the lady, for the night.”

Gross, gross, gross, and also _what_? “What lady?” Klaude asked, voice rough and dark, scowling in a way he hadn’t since that fool Rumpel--Chevajerk--whatever his real name was--had propositioned him. “Do you see any ladies here?”

The bandits actually drew back a step as one terrified unit. Huh. Perhaps his scowl was more useful than he had thought.

Waltz was laughing again, the jerk. Fine. Klaude was totally capable of handling this himself. “Draw or die,” he informed the bandit leader coolly, and then he drew his sword.

He heard the whistle of arrows being released, but he barely had a breath’s length to worry about his impetuousness before there was a snap and flash of purple light and Klaude realized he really didn’t need to worry about archers. The bandit leader was barely able to parry his initial thrust, and from then on it was as easy as swordplay.

The fight didn’t last more than a matter of seconds before the so-called “leader” was disarmed and on the ground, cradling his wounded thigh. When Klaude turned to his next opponent, it was with the comforting feeling of Waltz’s back once more pressed to his own.

“Try to take prisoners,” Waltz said calmly, like this was just another afternoon’s practice back at the Brugantian royal sparring grounds. He ducked slightly, avoiding a blow that Klaude was able to counter, the jarring nature of his strike quickly disarming the other man, and then he continued, “We can leave them for Lance’s group to find and take care of.” 

Waltz snapped and, with a quick purple flash, a bandit darting for Klaude froze into a statue of ice.

“Witchy show off,” Klaude muttered, and then another bandit was on him and he was busy.

By the time Klaude had downed six enemies and Waltz had frozen four, the others had fled. 

“We make a good team,” Waltz said easily, inspecting their handiwork. Klaude cursed his stupid heart for shivering at the honest and innocent words. “Would you mind tying them up? I want to save my magic in case there’s a fresh effort later.”

“That’s fine with me,” Klaude said, detaching his pack from his horse. The bandits hadn’t even gotten close enough to touch the animals, fortunately. He pulled out his rope and got to work.

When he was done tying the bandits to the trees off past the treeline to await the arrival of Lance and the guards--probably only a few hours behind them, unless they were truly taking their time--he returned to the clearing they had fought in to find Waltz gazing in silence up at the night sky. For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t smiling.

In the dim light offered by stars and the lanterns clipped to their horses, Waltz looked like a figure straight out of a Fairytale. His profile was long and strong and shadowed in colors of mystery and power.

He’d be Prince Charming, of course. Klaude felt significantly, perhaps stupidly outmatched by him.

But they weren’t just characters in a story. Waltz was Klaude’s friend. Klaude’s partner, in so many things. Someone who Klaude absolutely trusted to see the true him, past his exterior appearance, and yet to still believe that what he saw there was worth sticking around for.

Klaude shivered and stepped forward. “Everything alright?” he asked, hating to disturb the moment but knowing he had to or he was going to say or do something truly dumb.

Waltz didn’t even look in his direction. “I’ve forgotten how the night sky looks in Angielle,” he said, quietly but very audibly. Klaude was suddenly, impossibly aware of how alone they were in the darkness, bound and gagged bandits notwithstanding. “I’m wondering what it will be like, to be back.”

“Parfait and Delora will be glad to see us,” Klaude said, uncertain of exactly what Waltz meant. “Princess Lucette as well, I’m sure. Well, everyone’s always glad to see me, but I’m sure they’ll be glad to see you as well.”

Waltz just hummed. He then suddenly looked down from the sky, red eyes gleaming in the faint lantern light, and offered a hand to Klaude.

“Dance with me?” he said. “I haven’t danced in the starlight since I was a child. Before…”

Before he became apprenticed to Hildyr. Before his parents were killed.

How was Klaude supposed to say no, even as a voice in the back of his mind screamed at him that he was being the world’s hugest idiot?

In deference to that voice, he managed to say, “I’m not a woman, you know,” even as he stepped forward to take the outstretched hand.

Waltz pulled him in, and it was truly annoying how he was just enough taller than Klaude for it to be noticeable, for Klaude’s eyes to line up with Waltz’s mouth when he was this close, right there, and the smile was slowly coming back, curving those lips, and…

And Klaude felt so, so much like a woman. Like a blushing teenage girl. 

Damn him.

He scowled up at Waltz, focusing on those honest red eyes. “The things I do for you.”

“I know you’re not a woman, Klaude,” Waltz said patiently, smiling down at him. The hand that wasn’t curved around Klaude’s own was instead perched on his shoulder, holding him so impossibly gently. Klaude wanted to rip him apart. His hand found Waltz’s waist, instead, holding him just as gently. Damn him. “And I really am very glad that you’re willing to do so much for me. You’re a good friend.”

Waltz clearly had no idea what he was doing, dancing evidently not being considered a valuable skill for witch training, so Klaude led, even though he was the shorter partner. It was interesting, in a way; he’d never actually danced with someone taller than himself before. They turned slowly around the small clearing they were in. Waltz tread on top of Klaude’s feet every few steps, but Klaude managed not to complain. 

After they’d made a few turns successfully, Waltz quietly said, “You were wrong, you know. If I was truly in love with someone, I don’t think I’d be mature enough to step back and let someone else have them.”

So Waltz had heard him earlier, then.

But that wasn’t even important.

What was that supposed to mean?! Was there someone Waltz felt like that for? The thought was like a lance of fire piercing Klaude’s stomach, for some reason he didn’t want to dwell on.

Klaude almost tripped over a bandit’s sword that had been left in the grass and he immediately let go of Waltz, remembering all of a sudden where they were and who they were and where they were supposed to be going.

“Thank you,” Waltz said, not mentioning the suddenness of his comment or Klaude’s subsequent withdrawal. “Like I said, you’re a good friend, Klaude.”

“You’re welcome,” Klaude said. “I know it’s an honor beyond measure to dance with someone as gorgeous and talented as I am, let alone befriend them.” What was he even saying? What was happening? “We better keep moving if we want to be able to stay ahead of Lance’s group and claim the bragging rights.”

“You’re right,” Waltz said. Then his eyes sparkled. “... kid.”

Whatever moment they had been having was clearly over. Klaude punched him in the shoulder. Waltz laughed at him.

And they left.

\--

The palace was humming with activity as everyone prepared for the wedding. Klaude had no real interest in helping and spent more time than not in the palace’s practice yards, catching up with Garlan and Jurien and otherwise sparring his days away. Lance, when he finally arrived, nearly a full day after Waltz and Klaude (ha!), clearly didn’t have an interest in helping either, but he just as clearly had a definite interest in Princess Emelaigne, volunteering for any and every opportunity that would place him in her view. Princess Emelaigne just as clearly didn’t have eyes for anyone but the masked guard that was typically shadowing her, but Klaude wasn’t going to say anything if Lance didn’t notice. As his baby brother fully deserved.

Klaude barely ever saw the royal couple themselves. They had been greeted by the King and Queen alone and then shown to the wing of rooms reserved for the Brugantian delegation the day of their arrival, and had been left to their own devices ever since.

Klaude wasn’t really complaining. Something had been fizzing inside of him for the entirety of their visit, making his skin prickle uneasily. He just wanted to be back home with Waltz and, at this point, even his brother, if necessary.

During an afternoon sparring session with Waltz a few days before the wedding, he finally realized what had actually been bothering him. Bothering him for days, for weeks, even if he hadn’t been quite astute enough to realize it.

“I’ll miss you all when you leave,” Waltz said after Klaude landed the first blunted strike on his bare forearm, and everything had immediately clicked. “I’ll miss Brugantia. I forgot how hot it can get in Angielle.” He pulled the rest of his shirt off and mopped his forehead with it before tossing it aside. Stupid easy shirtless sparring. “Then again, without you here to sleep until the sun’s at its absolute hottest, maybe I’ll be able to spar at a cooler time of day, like the rest of the guards.”

“You’re planning to stay,” Klaude said, even though he already knew it was true to the very roots of his soul without any confirmation. He had known it since they had received the invitation, he realized. Dammit. He couldn’t even fully appreciate how stupidly attractive Waltz was without his shirt on, this news was so overwhelming.

“I thought you knew,” Waltz said, and, damn it all, Klaude had known, he just hadn’t… known.

“Of course,” Klaude said. “Why wouldn’t you stay? The crystal bearers are both here. It makes far more sense for you to stay and help them, train with them, so on. You are a witch, after all.” Somehow, Klaude was managing to pull off calm and cool. Probably. His dull practice sword was shaking in his hand, but he probably seemed collected enough.

Not collected enough for Waltz, of course, the King of Calm. His red eyes were clearly focused on the trembling sword.

“Klaude?” Waltz asked as his eyes snapped back up to meet Klaude’s own, voice slow and even. Klaude hated him. Klaude hated every single gorgeously tan and muscled and glistening inch of him. “Is there a reason why I shouldn’t stay?”

Klaude swallowed, hard, and dropped his sword. Maybe he was crazy. Maybe he was losing his mind. 

Maybe it had sounded a little bit like Waltz was actually saying, “Give me a reason not to stay.”

Klaude surged forward. Waltz clearly hadn’t expected the maneuver, practice sword half-raised as though he thought there was an attack coming that he’d need to counter, but it fell from his hands as Klaude tackled him into the dust of the practice yard ground.

“I’m sorry,” Klaude said belatedly--or too early?--either way, feeling slightly delirious as he knelt with his legs on either side of Waltz’s hips, leaned in, and kissed him.

Waltz kissed back.

When he pulled back, Waltz was grinning up at him. Stupid grin. Stupid Waltz. Klaude grinned back down at him, helpless to stop it.

“I’m not sorry,” Waltz said. “It took you long enough.”

Klaude punched his bare shoulder, but not very hard. His hand lingered after the hit. Waltz just laughed at him. 

“I’ve been carrying your bags for you for actual years,” Waltz added when he was done laughing, still smirking and oh so confident, even though he was the one shirtless and on the ground beneath Klaude. “I’m not that much of a gentleman.”

“And I’m not actually a woman,” Klaude said, narrowing his eyes. “I don’t expect bag carrying to have quite the same connotation.”

Waltz just shrugged, seeming to be perfectly at ease with how the movement rippled under Klaude’s hand, between Klaude’s legs. Or perhaps perfectly at ease with how he probably knew Klaude would react, because Klaude felt himself turning red and leaping back to his feet, hoping the blood would stay in his face rather than retreat to… other places.

This was different than the women he’d flirted with in the past. This was Waltz. His friend. Glowing, magical, stupidly handsome, impossibly trusting Waltz.

Glowing, magical, stupidly handsome, impossibly trusting Waltz didn’t seem to be in a rush to move any time soon, lazily pulling himself into a sitting position, slinging a careless arm around his bent knee and letting his golden bracelets clink with the movement, but not yet standing. “I know you’re not a woman,” he said, looking slowly up the length of Klaude's body as if to make that sentiment _crystal clear_. He smirked rakishly when he finally met Klaude's eyes. Klaude was blushing so hard that he was shocked he wasn't actually catching on fire. “I don’t mind. Are you going to stay here with me, then?” He was still sitting there, patiently. Calm and smiling. Of course.

And he was still planning to stay in Angielle, even after that. So the “give me a reason not to stay” had been in Klaude’s head after all. Of course.

“How?” asked Klaude, and it wasn’t a protest so much as a plea for assistance. “There’s just… Waltz, I’m a prince. I’m a man. I don’t know what you think…” Klaude didn’t know what he was thinking, either. He had just kissed another man, after all. He let the sentence trail off.

“So what?” asked Waltz. “None of that means you don’t deserve a happily ever after, if you want one.”

“And is that what you would be, for me?” Klaude asked, half-dismissive and half-pleading. “My happily ever after?”

“You tell me,” Waltz said.

Klaude stared at him, at this unbelievably powerful witch who took in every dramatic, storming lash of his emotional tides and kept smoothly sailing through it all, and fell to his knees in front of him.

“Well,” he said, voice hushed and hesitant, like he was sharing a secret, his brain working frantically as he pieced together options, “my father did mention that he wanted to station a permanent ambassador in Angielle, now that the royalty has finally embraced a policy of non-violence.”

“And so?” said Waltz, voice just as quiet as he moved onto his knees to match Klaude. He was grinning again, lips curving so slowly but inexorably upwards, and now Klaude basically had permission to kiss that grin whenever he wanted. How was he supposed to give up that kind of power?

“ _And so_ it can be my brother’s job to keep the royal line going,” Klaude said at last, feeling his lips curve into a helpless, honest smile of his own. “He’s certainly had enough practice.”

This time, Waltz leaned in and kissed him first.


	5. The Wedding

Lucette had never been surrounded by more people in her entire life. It would have felt entirely overwhelming if not for Rod’s gloved hand in hers, the two of them in matching white formal wear as they sat above the crowd and prepared to accept gifts from their guests. She squeezed his fingers slightly, even as she didn’t dare look over at him instead of at their approaching guests, and felt the gentle answering squeeze he offered in return.

Everyone in this room knew they loved each other. Everyone in the world would know, soon enough.

She felt so light with the feeling that she wouldn’t be surprised if her magic was leaking and she was actually glowing.

Prince Klaude approached first, by virtue of his ranking. He looked happier than Lucette had ever seen him, and that included when she had broken his curse for him, years ago. He bowed elegantly at the end of the carpet and announced, “From the Brugantian royal family, for the happy couple, my brother and I have brought three boxes of the finest Brugantian silks, so that they may be used to clothe the happy marriage bed.” He looked up at the two of them and winked before standing up straight and spreading his arms. “As a personal gift, I offer my very own, most prized possession: myself.” There was a brief pause as Klaude waited for his words to sink in, before he finished, “As your new Brugantian ambassador.”

Lucette had to fight not to narrow her eyes at him, especially if she was going to have to deal with him indefinitely.

“Thank you to the country of Brugantia,” she answered, pointedly.

Rod, who was far more diplomatic than she was, continued, “And thank you as well, Prince Klaude. We couldn’t ask for an ambassador of greater worth. Your friendship is of great value to us both.”

He was so kind, so good. It forced her to try to be worthy of him. Without even making a face, she managed to add, “We’re looking forward to increased cooperation between our nations in this peaceful time.”

Klaude bowed again, smiling at her as though he knew what she was thinking, and retreated. The minor nobles were next, including Viorica and her husband, who gave the two of them a beautiful pair of dolls, designed as an almost perfect replica of Lucette and Rod in their wedding outfits. It was so thoughtful that it brought a lump to Lucette’s throat, and she had to squeeze Rod’s hand again to anchor herself. He understood and brushed a kiss against her temple, uncaring about the spectators.

There were more people from town than Lucette had been expecting, though she wasn’t overly surprised. She knew firsthand how endearing the royal stepsiblings could be, and she couldn’t blame anyone who had ever sought their friendship. A few of the gift-bearers were familiar to her by now: Viorica’s mother, bearing a portrait of Rod’s family that had landed in her hands at some point in time, the owner of Emelaigne’s favorite pastry shop with a box full of what he called ‘Rodettes,’ new pastries he had invented in honor of the occasion that were crafted in the shape of seashells and filled with a spicy cinnamon creme, and the proprietor of Rod’s favorite musical wares shop with a rare edition of Rod’s favorite operetta. A few of the commoners were Lucette’s own guests: Annice, blushing bright red and bearing a herbal concoction ("for fertility" she had practically whispered), Rumpel--Chevalier, now, Lucette often forgot--with a thoughtful journal full of advice about love, Waltz with a bouquet of magical white lilies that would never wilt or lose their pleasant smell, and Delora and Fait with a beautiful golden mirror that had been enchanted to always offer good advice and, of course, Mr. Broom, with Delora almost cackling as she announced it was, “a way to always remember how you two got started.”

Lucette’s favorite gift, however, wasn’t offered to her until after the gift-giving time was over and the guests had started to chat and wander the room in couples or small groups as they waited for the music to begin. She stood, desiring to stretch her legs before all eyes were once more on her and Rod for their first official dance, and was nearly pulled off the podium by the strength of Emelaigne’s excitement alone.

“It was really hard keeping this a secret from you,” Emelaigne gushed, grip tight on her arm. “I just wanted it to be absolutely perfect.” She was tugging Lucette towards a nearby servant’s doorway and Lucette let herself be tugged, ruefully used to Emelaigne’s brand of enthusiasm by now.

“It will only take a minute, I just wanted you to see--” Emelaigne was saying and then the door was open onto the servant’s hallway and Lucette couldn’t hear anything else except for the rushing in her own ears.

Fritz was standing there. As soon as the door had opened, he had moved: one hand reflexively to his hip and the other awkwardly massaging the back of his neck.

It was so familiar, so nostalgic, that it physically hurt.

Something that had been rattling loose in Lucette’s chest for the past two years finally, finally settled.

“Fritz…?” she whispered. She was being ridiculous. It wasn’t like a loud voice was going to scare him off, now that he was here.

“Happy wedding day, princess,” Fritz said, and it really was him, he sounded just the same as ever, gentle and soft around every edge. “I’m glad I got to see you smile.”

That was all it took. Not caring about her delicate wedding dress or about the potential spectators, Lucette launched herself at him, hugging him tightly. Fritz flinched at first, but caught her regardless and held her in return.

“Where’ve you been?” Lucette asked. “You idiot. No one gave you permission to leave.”

“I’m sorry, princess,” Fritz said. “I promise, I never went very far. I just needed someone to bring me back.”

With that, Lucette suddenly remembered Emelaigne. She abruptly let go of Fritz and whirled on her new sister-in-law, who was standing a little awkwardly in the doorway, hands clasped in front of her.

“You did this,” Lucette said, and there was an odd burning sensation in her eyes. Could people cry for joy? “Emelaigne. You found him.”

Emelaigne laughed, nervous and dainty, and said, “What are sisters for?”

How had she ever thought this flower of a human being was a threat to her? Before she knew it, Lucette was hugging her too, hiding her face in Emelaigne’s neck. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for bringing him back.”

Emelaigne’s hands settled across Lucette’s back, moving in small, soothing gestures. “Thank you for bringing back Rod.”

There was nothing more to say.

Lucette clung to her sister and cried.

\--

Once she’d cleaned herself up, once Emelaigne had apologized approximately a hundred times for making her cry on her wedding day even as Lucette assured her that they had been very good tears indeed, only then did Lucette finally return to the main ballroom.

“Did you know?” she asked Rod, pulling him away from where he had been chatting with his mother.

“That my mother baked the wedding cake for us?” Rod guessed, slipping an arm around her waist.

Lucette paused for a moment to luxuriate in how easy such a gesture of affection could be now before saying, “No, I knew that. Did you know Emelaigne had found Fritz?”

Rod’s eyes widened. “She did?”

Of course. Rod never would have been able to keep the secret from her, not knowing how happy it would have made her. Lucette laughed and hid her face in his shoulder. “We should get married every day, if this is the kind of reward we receive.”

Rod’s arm tightened around her. “Once was enough, for me,” he said, gently. “After all, it means I can keep you forever now.”

“You always had me,” Lucette said into his shoulder, hiding her blush. “Even before I knew you did. I love you so much.”

“And I you.” Rod untangled them, which would have made Lucette pout at him, but then he bowed deeply at her and said, “Now, may I have this dance?”

“For the rest of our lives,” Lucette promised, and she took his hand.

He led her to the dance floor, twirled her around, and then the dancing could begin.

It seemed as though many people had just been waiting for the signal to start dancing. They were barely alone on the floor for a few breaths before other couples began to join them. Lucette smiled widely at the sight of her father and Ophelia, dancing close together in a tiny circle in one corner of the room. She leaned on Rod and continued watching, only to realize that, in the shadows next to the royal couple, Delora was holding Fait way, way too close and gently swaying with her to the beat.

That almost seemed more like watching her parents be grossly intimate than watching her actual father be grossly intimate did, so Lucette made a face and purposefully looked around the room to find a distraction.

Emelaigne was dancing in wide movements near the center of the room, her face bright and happy as Fritz twirled her. He had a smile on his face that Lucette had never seen before, something that seemed somehow older and harder than any face she’d ever seen him make, but no less honest for it. He leaned in to whisper something into Emelaigne’s ear and she blushed bright red from her ears to her neck, but her smile never left her face. Lucette looked away again, feeling the need to offer them privacy.

Chevalier and his wife were dancing in the back of the room, close to the main doorway. They were unpracticed but Chevalier, at least, was clearly highly passionate. After he tried yet another disastrously low dip, his wife gently swatted his arm and said something that had him letting her go and walking off, seeming to be on the hunt for a servant bearing champagne. As he went, his wife’s eyes followed every movement, soft and incredibly fond.

It was while she was studying this look, a look of love lost and then relearned, that a flash of red outside of the doorway caught her eye. She caught a quick glimpse of an unmistakable long red ponytail leaning against a pillar, of a tan hand coming up to frame a pale face as a darker figure leaned down--and then she was suddenly facing Rod’s breathtaking eyes as he dipped her.

“Am I boring you, my darling?” Rod said, eyebrows crinkling in honest amusement.

“I think I could probably out-dance you at our own wedding,” Lucette said in response, her smile up at him helplessly wide.

“I accept your challenge,” Rod said, matching her smile for smile and pulling her back up.

And they danced.

\--

And, with freedom and acceptance, with forgiveness and trust, they all lived Happily Ever After.


End file.
